The Slender Man
by Juliette Madigan
Summary: Where have all the children gone? Sequel to "New Beginnings", but can be read as a standalone piece. Not slash. Rated T for Terrifying.    NB: I don't intend to finish this because the way the plot was going to go  I planned this before S2  is wayy too similar to the Hounds of Baskerville episode in S2. Great minds think alike? Sorry, everyone.
1. An Uninvited Guest

_**Sherlock **_**belongs to Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.  
>The following is rated T for: drug references, drug use, language, violence, and quite a lot of gore.<br>Enjoy! If you feel it's worth your time, please review. The feedback's appreciated.**

It was 12:00 AM, and I was wide awake.

I wasn't quite sure what had woken me; the only thing I was aware of was that I was completely _aware_. This alert response was a reflex left over from Afghanistan. Useful in combat situations, sure, but five thousand kilometers away in a peaceful flat in central London? It merely became a nuisance.

It was quiet, the only disturbance to the silence being the occasional ebb and flow of the sound of cars.

I rolled over. Sarah had pulled all the blankets over to her side of the bed, tangled inextricably in the sheets. I smiled.

That must have been it. It was terribly cold in here, no wonder I had woken.

Cold…why was it cold? I was almost positive Sarah had turned the heat on.

I sat up, squinted. The light from the alarm clock was dim enough to tell the window was open. That wasn't right. It had been closed since we moved in.

I scanned the room, trying to see if maybe something had fallen over. I felt like it was a noise that had prompted my abrupt return to consciousness; had a pigeon flown in the open window?

And then something, something big, something blacker than the black of the cold, dark, room, _moved._

There was someone in our room. A human, I mean. Definitely human. A little tall, but undeniably a human being. Probably a burglar.

I could take him.

I sat up, unplugged the lamp, and slid out of bed. I was wearing socks. My footsteps made no noise. I raised the lamp, straining to see in the darkness. The intruder seemed to have vanished into thin air.

A hand seized my wrist.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," whispered a voice in my ear.

"_Holy shhhh_-Sherlock?" My heart was pounding a tattoo against my ribcage. _Christ…_

"Always good to see you, too." I couldn't see, but I could hear the smile in his voice.

"Sherlock! You nearly gave me a-what-how the _hell _did you get in here?"

"Window."

"_You came in through the_-"

Sarah tossed in her sleep, muttering incomprehensibly.

"Shh," murmured Sherlock. "Don't want to wake her…"

"Don't shush me!" I hissed back furiously. "You couldn't have used the bloody front door?"

"At least I knocked," he whispered, annoyed.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed, taking this in stride. "Okay. Okay, fine. Why are you here?"

"It's urgent."

"Urgent." My mind immediately leapt to the worst of conclusions: the flat had been blown up. Again. Or Mrs. Hudson was dead. Or Mycroft. Or both. _Or, _said the sensible part of my mind that wasn't still freaking out about finding someone in my room who was not supposed to be there, _there's a particularly interesting murder that needs you attention._

"Yes. Get dressed and come with me, no time to explain."

"You had time to knock."

He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, impatient as ever. It had been a month since I last saw him; Sarah and I had been honeymooning in France. I had been back two days and already texted him sixteen times.

"Alright," he said finally. "Meet me downstairs, in the kitchen. Five minutes."

He strode out of the room and shut the door behind him.

"Closet," I whispered.

He strode back out. "I gathered."

This time, he picked the right door.


	2. Novelty

I came downstairs to find Sherlock perched on the countertop, head brushing a cabinet. He was completely still. The only thing that gave away his agitation was the slight to-and-fro twitch of his feet, which almost reached the linoleum, and his eyes, which were leaping from floor to fridge to sink with curious intensity. I shivered slightly.

"Why's it so cold in here?"

"Oh, I turned the heat off, you don't mind, do you? It was getting warm." He adjusted his scarf to make his point.

"Or you could just take your coat off…" I dragged a chair away from the table and sat to his left.

"Waste of time, we should get going now anyway."

"Get going _where_? And why?"

"New case. I got an email last night, thought it looked interesting. So I called the number she gave me."

"And?"

"It was. She hasn't gone to the police yet, as of six hours ago, anyway. She said she might. I would like to get there before that…unfortunate development."

"Who is this woman, exactly?"

"Jeanne Fischer. No one important. She lives in Hendon with her husband and one child. We can take the tube. I'll explain on the way."

I leaned back in my chair. "Okay, two problems with that."

He sighed in a way that suggested there was an interesting case here for the taking and all other things should be of a lower priority. "Yes, yes, you have work tomorrow, I _know_, but-"

"I'm in."

"I think it would be helpful if-sorry, what?"

"I said I'm in."

The corners of his mouth turned up ever so slightly, a crack in the frowning mask. "You didn't even let me explain."

I returned the smile. "What, you really think I'd let you run off on your own?"

"I wasn't counting on it, no. Well, come on then, we…" He trailed off, eyes fixed on a point directly behind me.

I turned around.

Sarah was looking about as threatening as one can look in a nightie. Her arms were crossed. She was tapping her foot. This was a Bad Sign.

Sherlock smiled his most innocent, disarming smile. "Sarah! _Hi_, it's been _such_ a long time, how was-"

"Get off my countertop."

He slid off without so much as a noise of protest.

"Sarah," I said, smiling just as nervously. "I uh-he was just-"

"Going," finished Sherlock hurriedly.

"Yes," I said, relieved that he had picked up on her danger signs so quickly. The relief dissipated quickly as he started to drag me out with him.

"Er, wait," I said. "Hold on, I never said-"

"_Oh, _no no no no," interrupted Sarah grimly, grabbing the back of my collar. "I have terms."

"And I have a _case_," he insisted, pulling me forwards.

"You're going to bring him back in one piece-"

"When have I not-"

"You're not to go looking for trouble-"

"_I do not_-"

"Before six."

"Seven."

"Six-thirty."

"Deal," she said, and they both let go at once.

Needless to say, I was feeling a little harassed, having just been in a human tug-of-war match and not quite sure who had won.

"Oh, and you're on call tomorrow," she added, pecking me on the lips.

"Thank God," he muttered, as soon as we were out of earshot of the flat. "I thought she was going to call the police."

"I thought _I _was going to have to report a homicide," I replied, slipping my phone into my pocket. Both Sherlock and I had become slightly obsessive about keeping our phones on us and charged at all times after the incident at the supermarket.

"Has she told you yet?"

"Told me what?"

"Oh-never mind," he said cryptically. "She'll get around to it."

* * *

><p>The ride to Hendon seemed short, probably because Sherlock was attempting to make up for lost time by filling me in on any anecdote he could remember from his three year hiatus. I got the sense that he wasn't telling me everything; parts of his stories were patchy, or skipped a few weeks. That was okay, though. There were some things I would never tell him about, either, like how in the weeks immediately following his "suicide" I would keep looking for his presence in things. The skull, the chemistry set, his laptop, a forgotten favorite pen or pillow.<p>

Mostly, I just felt his absence.

We were pretty much the only people on the train, given the time. Sherlock kept anxiously checking the map in between sentences (whenever he paused for breath, anyway-not often).

Finally, we arrived at Hendon Central Station. From there, we took a cab. It was one A.M., dark, forbidding, and terribly cold for November. The air felt tense, like it was waiting for a storm.

"So…case," I prompted, once we were comfortably seated for the half hour long drive. The house was something of a mansion, out in the middle of a forest.

"Right. Here are the facts," he began, with the air of a master storyteller about him. "Two nights ago Mary-Anne Wilkins was over at the Fischer's for a sleepover with their daughter, Martha. They were both twelve years old and went to the same school."

I winced. "Murder?"

"No. The Wilkins girl has gone missing."

"Not really that unusual."

"From a locked room, at night, in a house with a security system and the other girl lying right next to her, untouched?"

"That _is_ weird," I mused.

"Yes. That's not all, though. There were pictures, left behind in the bed."

"Of the girl?"

"No. The first one the mother emailed to me. I haven't got internet out here, but it was a shot of a playground and some children. Nothing unusual about it if you aren't paying attention, but if you look closely there is a figure in the background. A tall, shadowy thing with lots of arms and an indistinct face. Some of the children are standing around it, and its arms are outstretched, like it's…hungry, almost. Obviously photoshopped, but the fact remains that it's an odd choice of parting message."

"The Slender Man?"

His eyes narrowed sharply. "You've heard about this?"

"Yeah, it's sort of an urban legend. Got started on the internet, I think. It kidnaps children and no one see its face, or it looks different to each person. Some of the stories conflict. Apparently only children are able to see it at all. Usually hangs out in wooded areas."

"Appropriate," Sherlock agreed, "but not very scary. _Very_ interesting, though."

The car jerked to a halt.

"I'm not driving past here," said the cabbie gruffly.

We had stopped at a gravel path on the side of the road that had no visible end. I got out, Sherlock following.

"That's fine, thanks," I said, and paid him. He drove off.

The path was lit with nothing but the occasional, forlorn streetlight. Many long stretches remained almost pitch black. Sherlock had gone oddly silent, moving in long, fluid strides. He looked at ease, as though we were taking a walk in Hyde Park and not, instead, down the unwelcoming path flanked by tall, bare trees. It was slightly foggy. I was finding it hard to keep up with him.

I wasn't any more worried than he was, but I did wonder what I was getting myself into.

_Trouble_, I decided, after we came into view of the mansion.

I couldn't wait.


	3. A Vague Sense of Purpose

**Thanks for all the reviews!**

"Well that's just lovely," said Sherlock dryly, looking up at the manor. There were flashing police cars parked right in front of the Maserati. "The cavalry's arrived."

It was, as large country houses go, a beautiful piece of architecture. The bricks were a soft, rosy pink, thrown into sharp relief by the accent lighting. There was a balcony in the center and two looming windows behind it that revealed a lit crystal chandelier and vaulted ceiling. The police cars marred its beauty, though-flashing blue and red stains on an otherwise picturesque residence.

"Should we leave?" I asked.

He shook his head. "No, no, calling the police was precipitated by some new development. We _can't_ leave."

I nodded, not sure why I had felt almost hopeful at the prospect of leaving. It's not the place that was pushing me away; it was a paying job and a wife and a warm flat that was pulling.

_But there is no way, absolutely no way, that I am letting him run off on his own_, I told myself firmly. Where did I draw the line, though? Had I "settled down", whatever that meant?

"You're limping," said Sherlock, softly, breaking into my train of thought right on cue. Apparently he could read minds now.

"No I'm not."

"Yes you are. Just a little. Barely noticeable." He smiled. "You've been out of the game too long, Doctor."

"Maybe I have," I replied, not entirely sure what that meant. We had come to the door, now, and his hand was frozen above the well-worn doorbell. The easy smile melted off his face.

"You don't want to."

I opened my mouth to protest. The hurt was already gone from his face, his expression steely and blank once more. It wasn't often I was at the receiving end of such a look. It always unnerved me a little. Sometimes I forgot how frightening that could be to other people. Not me. I trust him too much.

"No, it's alright," he said with an utter lack of any inflection. "You should go home." Monotone. Another Bad Sign. I like to think I knew the Bad Signs for both of them-I should have, anyway, since they're the two most important people in my life-but every so often I mixed them up. Does the slight downward shift of Sarah's eyebrows mean she's upset? Or just focusing? When Sherlock pauses a bit before a word, is it his flair for the dramatic or is it second thoughts about what he's saying?

I expected I'd get used to it, in time, because I couldn't imagine anything else. It's not really different from what most people do; balancing friends and family and work. And I liked it. A different sort of challenge.

I knew where I stood and what I was doing.

Now to assure Sherlock of that.

"Sherlock," I said quietly. "Listen to me."

"Mmm." It was a noncommittal, guarded sound. He was pretending he didn't care. Or maybe not pretending.

"I'm not leaving." I smiled, trying to make light of it. "Never had you pegged as the insecure type…"

He scoffed, the self-assuredness back in his posture, the excitement of a pending adventure back in his eyes. "Please. Spare me. Shall we, then?"

I nodded in the direction of the doorbell. He rang.

It opened almost immediately.

"Ah," said Sherlock. "Inspector Gregson."

The Detective Inspector's mouth opened just a fraction of an inch in disbelief, then shut. "You. You're fucking kidding me."

"It's chilly out, are you really going to leave us here on the doorstep? Alone?" Aaaand out came the puppy-dog eyes.

"Yes." He moved to close the door. Sherlock stuck his foot in the gap.

The man sighed. His voice was just as low and gravelly as Lestrade's, but with an added hoarseness to it, perhaps a touch more vulgar, the undercurrent of kindness absent.

"We were requested," said Sherlock.

The small slice of his face we could still see looked hugely skeptical. It raised an eyebrow with more careful disdain than I would have thought possible from him.

"The lady, Mrs. Fischer, she's our client," I explained.

The eyebrow went higher. With each word I said it was inching a little closer to his hairline at a rate that made it look like a giant, wiggling brown caterpillar.

"She asked for us to come and take a look."

The eyebrow disappeared into his hair.

"And," I finished triumphantly, "She already paid us. So if you want us to leave you have to let us inside to collect a refund."

He let us in.

"Nice one," said Sherlock in an undertone. It was a complete lie, of course-Sherlock never collected money until after the case was solved and he could determine how interesting it had been and whether or not the client could afford the fee (although the latter was usually decided in the first few seconds of meeting them, and certainly no question here).

The inside of the house was no less grand than the outside, but the apparent calm had been a façade. Two people were standing in the middle of the foyer yelling at each other

Sato walked down the stairs, taking her gloves off as she went. She frowned as she saw us. _What are you doing here?, _she mouthed. I shrugged. Sherlock waved.

"THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!" screamed, I assume, Mrs. Fischer. She had too much makeup on.

Her husband had plastered a smile onto his face, but his eyes were blazing. "My fault, honey? I've always said that you give her too much free rein-"

"YOU'VE NO IDEA HOW THE WOMEN AT THE BOOK CLUB ARE LOOKING AT ME!"

"If you could just keep your voice down, there are people in-oh, who's this?"

"Sherlock Holmes, I believe I was invited."

The fire went out of his eyes. "Yes, I remember, the detective! Come in, you want to have a look-"

"Don't mind if we do," he said smugly. Sato glared at him.

"Actually," she said stiffly, "We were just about to send out a helicopter for the missing girl."

"And what makes you think she's merely lost in the woods, are you really buying this whole Slender Man theory-"

"_No_, I just think we should eliminate the obvious first."

Sally poked her head out the door. "Allison, think you might want a-" She saw us, paused, and closed the door.

"Tell me when they're gone!"

"Where's Greg?" I said.

"Inspector Lestrade?" replied Sato, at the same time Sherlock said, "_Greg?_"

"What?" I asked.

"Since when is he 'Greg'?" he said indignantly.

"Since…what? I can call him by his first name if I want, we've known each other for five years-"

Sato raised an eyebrow. "He's busy."

This got Sherlock interested. "Busy? What do you mean, busy?"

"I mean _busy_."

"Is he on a different case?" I asked.

"No, he…asked me not to talk about it."

Now I was suspicious.

"I haven't heard from him in a while…" I said, worried.

"Is someone making you say that?" said Sherlock, leaning forward, searching her face for a lie.

"No, we just…" She was looking extremely put-upon now.

"We'll stop asking if you let us in," said Sherlock quickly.

She pursed her lips. "Fine. But you only have ten minutes."

"Thanks," I said gratefully, as Sherlock bounded up the stairs.

She put a hand on my shoulder as I started to follow him. "Doctor Watson, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

She nodded in the direction of the staircase. "Keep an eye on him."

"I'll try."

Business-like once more, she snapped a walkie-talkie off her belt and turned some dials. "Okay…try a few meters north, she couldn't have gotten far."

I followed him up the stairs.

_Keep an eye on him._

Okay. I could manage that.


	4. Vision

**This story is one big canon reference (i.e. it's an ACD story, sort of). The first person to guess which one gets...my undying admiration (although you all have that already...).**

**The game is on!**

Martha's room was painted a dusky grey-blue. It was conspicuously neat, so much so that I half-expected the floor to sparkle with sterility. Quite convenient for a crime scene.

DC Hopkins looked up from the corner and gave us a grin.

Sally rolled her eyes and tossed us blue latex gloves. "I see you've brought your shadow," she said, nodding at me disdainfully.

"Yes I have, where's yours?" replied Sherlock.

"Visiting his wife," she said uncomfortably.

Sherlock smiled indulgently. "Well, that's certainly more important than this."

"Sherlock," I said warningly.

"She's getting better," said Hopkins.

I nodded. "Good to hear."

"It's too clean," murmured Sherlock, indicating the room. "Who cleaned it? The maid?"

"How would you know they have a maid?" asked Hopkins. He gave him a look.

"Oh," he said, shuffling his feet. "Right. Sorry. The house…and the…car…right."

Donovan shrugged. "Could have been. We only just got here."

"How do we know Martha didn't clean it?" I suggested.

"We just heard the parents downstairs arguing about giving the girl too much free rein, doubtful they would make her clean her room on her own, especially not from the state a twelve year old usually leaves their room, _especially _not after a kidnapping. Doesn't anyone ever _think_-"

He groaned in frustration, dropped to his knees, and then slid under the bed. Donovan raised an eyebrow at me. I shrugged.

"Nothing under here," he announced. I glanced out the window.

In the light from one of the lamps surrounding the fence I saw something. It was-I know this sounds crazy-it was a tall, dark figure with more than two arms. I couldn't see its face. My blood ran cold.

At the same time there was a pain in my forehead so splitting that I actually cried out.

_Thunk_.

Sherlock hit his head on the bottom of the bed in his haste to clamber out. "What, what?"

"M'good," I muttered, holding a hand to my head. "Just a headache."

He removed my hand, studying my eyes.

"Sure?"

"I'm _fine_," I said insistently. I looked out the window again.

Nothing. I must have imagined it.

Sherlock slammed a cup down on a side table in annoyance. "Why did they let them _clean_ the crime scene? There's nothing here to work with!" He ripped the gloves off and tossed them onto the table.

The distinct sound of helicopter blades faded in from the distance.

Sato burst in, holding up her walkie-talkie smugly. "We found her."


	5. Questions

**Just a heads up-as of July 10th, 2011, I won't be updating for another three weeks or so. Don't feel sad, though, when we're back there will be big, scary, dramatic things in store!**

"Have you called her parents?" John asked.

"Yes, they should be here in maybe twenty minutes," replied Sato.

"Just enough time," said Sherlock, smiling. _Perfect. _

"Wait," said Donovan. "What are you going to do?"

"Question her. See what she knows. Where did you find her?" He started down the stairs, John, Donovan, and Hopkins in tow.

"About three miles into the woods, asleep."

"She must be freezing," muttered John.

"I'll make tea," offered Hopkins.

"Good," said Sherlock. "Make yourself useful, Sally, go help him."

She made a noise under her breath like a cow giving birth to a lorry and stalked off. With them out of the way, this would be a lot easier. Now to find a way to get rid of Sato…She seemed sensible. Perhaps a direct approach would be best.

"Inspector Sato," he said, "I think it would yield the best results if I was allowed to question the girl alone."

"Why."

"You're a policewoman, I don't know what she would be comfortable admitting in front of you and I need all the facts."

Silence. A reluctant affirmation.

"I'll need some space. A quiet room."

"You could use the study," said Mr. Fischer, just exiting it himself. "As long as you don't touch anything."

"I think I'll be able to control myself," he said coldly. John pursed his lips.

"But…thanks for offering," he added, opening the windowless door to the study and placing himself in the black leather swivel chair. He immediately started to go through the contents of the desk.

_Solder, bills, bills, Descartes' Error, bills, 10K resistor…_

He whipped out his pocket magnifier (it wasn't a magnifying glass, for God's sake, those were stupid and antiquated) to get a closer look at some of the stains on the desk.

"Electrical engineer," he concluded, "But he dabbles in chemistry."

"Is that important?" asked John, closing the door behind him.

"Possibly. This is a strange case, not much to go on. I'll take what I can. Anything could be some sort of clue…"

There was a hesitant knock at the door.

"Come in," said John, and he could see the doctor reverting to his impeccable-bedside-manner voice.

The door creaked open. Mary-Anne Wilkins plodded in, her shoulder-length hair matted and her eyes eerily blank. A bright orange blanket that was much too big for her was wrapped around her shoulders. Hopkins was standing behind her, carrying a tray.

"There's hot chocolate for Mary-Anne. The tea Sally made was spiked, so I threw it away, if that's alright."

Sherlock felt a smile tugging at his mouth and forced it down. "The right decision, I think. You can go now."

"He can stay," said John suddenly. "I mean, he won't be bothering us or anything."

Hopkins looked hopeful.

"There's no room," said Sherlock listlessly, noting how the whole time Mary-Anne hadn't moved from her spot nor stopped staring out the window, although she was shivering now. She was barefoot.

John pointedly shoved a stack of papers off the desk. "Whoops," he said calmly, eyeing Sherlock critically. _Give the kid a chance. _

"_Fine_," he said, seeing no other option. "Lock the door behind you."

Sherlock suddenly realized he had no idea how to start and looked to John a touch desperately, as she had just been _standing there_ and _staring_ for five minutes and it was starting to get disconcerting.

John took the mug from the tray and handed it to her kindly. "Here, you must be cold."

She looked down at it as though she had never seen one before. "It was…cold."

"Do you remember anything?" asked Hopkins.

The hand holding the hot chocolate shook. "No…I don't…"

"It's alright," said John hurriedly. "You don't have to answer anything you don't want to." He leaned over to whisper something to Hopkins, who winced and nodded. Hopkins leaned over to him. "We should get someone to check, later," said the young man, "if she's been…abused."

Sherlock nodded curtly. That was the first thing he had thought of. Perhaps if they induced post-traumatic stress disorder…but they needed a _trigger_…

"Don't whisper," she said suddenly, in a clear voice. "It…whispered like that."

"Who?" asked Sherlock, leaning forward, feeling a surge of excitement. "The man who took you? Do you remember what he looked like?"

"Wasn't a man," she murmured.

There was a silence.

"What do you mean?" asked Hopkins slowly

"I mean…it wasn't a man…that took me." She muttered something indistinct.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch-"

"_We didn't want to go,_" she rasped, dropping the mug. The steaming, dark brown liquid started to soak into the carpet.

Sherlock got out of the chair slowly, carefully, trying not to make any sudden moves. John stepped forward and Sherlock founding himself instinctively leaning towards him. The doctor glanced at him, worried. "I don't like this," he said quietly.

"I'm sorry, where am I?" said the girl, in a completely normal (if terrified) voice.

"You're at the house of a friend of yours, Mary-Anne Fischer," said Sherlock.

She shook her head slowly. "No…I don't…who is that?"

"Do you not remember?" he asked.

"No." She started to cry silently.

"How much do you remember? Anything? You were at a sleepover-"

"I don't…please, I don't want to…" She was sobbing now, breath coming in heaving, labored gasps.

"Sherlock," said John uneasily.

"Shut up, we were getting somewhere!" He could not have imagined the flicker of recognition in her eyes.

"I remember…"

"Yes?"

"_It is the fog_."Her voice had gone low and raspy and terribly…inhuman…again. She started to scream and fell to the floor, holding her head.

John and the Constable leapt forward, holding her, keeping her from hurting herself.

"_The man and the beast. The angel is outside…it waits…_"

She seemed to be struggling with herself, alternately sobbing, flailing and then going still talking quite clearly in that hoarse voice.

Someone had evidently heard the commotion from outside. Judging by the footsteps (high heels, but not so high as to be impractical) it wasn't Sato or Donovan…

The doorknob rattled. There was a frantic pounding at the study door.

"The door is locked!" screamed a clearly panicking voice.

_Her mother. _

The girl's (if he wasn't referring to her by name, the screaming didn't matter. Just another client. Breathe) foot shot out, launching the hot chocolate mug at the opposite wall with such force that it shattered.

More banging.

"Get the door," panted John.

"I _know_," he snapped, edging around them to unlock it. It burst open.

"Oh-oh, my God, Mary! What did you do to her?"

"_Der große Mann_," she hissed, one final time, and then went limp.

"Nothing," said Hopkins hurriedly, as she started toward him with a positively vindictive look on her face. "Nothing, I swear, we were trying to help!"

"She collapsed," said John. "I think it would be best if we got her to a hospital."

"Dear?" said Mrs. Wilkins, sounding close to tears as she knelt to comfort her daughter, skirt fanning out beneath her. "Dearest, what's wrong? Are you hurt? Is everything alright?"

_Obviously not, _he wanted to say, but he held his tongue. She was looking around as though seeing the room for the first time.

"I don't understand," she said, calm. "Where am I? And who are you?"

"But…Mary-Anne…Mary? I'm your mother. I'm…look at me, darling…" Mrs. Wilkins put a hand out, cupping her chin, trying to turn her face towards her.

"No. I don't know you. Get-get away from me!" She stood defiantly, all four feet eight inches of her brimming with fear and rebellion. Mostly fear. Then her eyes rolled back in her head and she collapsed into Hopkins' arms.

Finally, silence.

A few hours later Sherlock and John were standing outside his flat.

"So. Nothing ventured, nothing gained…they're taking her to a hospital. They'll tell me if anything changes."

"Good," said John. He looked…unfocused. Off balance. This was especially worrying, because Sherlock simply couldn't deduce what was wrong. Too many variables.

All of a sudden he was afraid to leave.

"So…get some sleep," he said, squinting. It was going to be a clear day, and the sun was just rising from the horizon. The city had been awake for a few hours now.

"Yeah. Call me if anything happens. And…I'll see if I can reach Lestrade."

Sherlock nodded. "Bye."

"Bye. Wait," said John suddenly. "I, uh…" He scratched the back of his neck hesitantly.

"Yes?" _It's alright, I won't laugh. _

"I took a bit of German in…in high school…and…that last thing she said?"

"Wasn't _guten tag, _I know."

"_Der große Mann. _The tall man? What is that supposed to mean?"

He shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine."

"No it isn't."

"I think…I'll have to do a bit more digging before I can tell anything definite."

"Okay." John sighed. "See you day after tomorrow, then."

He nodded. That was the agreement. "Take care."


	6. Answers, Sort Of

"Hey."

Lestrade nearly dropped his briefcase in surprise. "Christ. Allison. Don't _do_ that."

Inspector Sato tapped her watch pointedly. "You were off duty ten minutes ago. Why are you still here?"

"Nothing, just…" He looked around the familiar meshing of glass and wood.

"They're asking about you."

"That's nice of them." He shrugged on his coat, but she moved to stop him.

Honestly.

"Listen," he said, lowering his voice. "We're alone in my office and you're getting a little…" He glanced down at the space between them, which, he realized, was barely enough to breathe in. "Uh. Close."

She rolled her eyes, an urge she must have been suppressing since her entrance. "Yes, they might even tell my _wife._"

"Fair point."

She smacked him lightly. "How long have you known me? You're my friend, Greg, and you're John's friend, too. And he's worried."

"He's got a good reason to worry."

"But…"

"Right, because John's worried, Sherlock's going to worry, and when he starts poking around…"

The DI grimaced.

Sato nodded. "Exactly. Which is why you should just tell them…"

"Yeah, like they're going to be able to do anything about it. That's why I'm _not_ telling them. I don't need the whole world knowing I'm on probation."

"You're going to be fired by the end of the month if we don't sort this out!"

He adjusted his coat. "Evening."

She stood there, dumbstruck, for exactly three and a half seconds. Then she grabbed a memo pad and angrily ripped the top sheet off.

"Fine," she hissed. "Fine. We'll see how much you don't like me _poking around…_"

* * *

><p>It was, even by the standards of the world's only consulting detective, a little late at night for this sort of thing.<p>

Sherlock had been scouring the web for the last three hours for any information he could find on the Slender Man. Most of the information was obviously fake (the monster had gained a memetic status on the web), but he kept coming across references to a German diary entry supposedly providing evidence of a sighting.

At one thirty, he found it-twelve grainy, black and white scans of shaky handwriting, hidden away in a remote corner of the internet. Barely legible.

He opened up Google Translate. Time to get to work.

_July 6__th__, 1906. _

_Louise has been worsening. He stays in bed all day, staring at the wall. He is thin. Too thin. Marie thinks he is wasting away. He has trouble sleeping. We have sent for a doctor._

_I fear the Tall Man is among us once more._

The next few entries chronicled Louise's deteriorating state, and were no less cryptic. Around four days in he began coughing up blood. The symptoms corresponded with those of a make-believe disease he had found on various websites-Slender Sickness. Apparently, the Slender Man induced this in its victims, draining them of life until it decided to kill them.

The journal was starting to get slightly unnerving. He needed some company.

Sherlock got up and fetched the skull, placing it beside his coffee. It would have to do for now.

_July 10__th__, 1906._

_Louise left his bed for the first, and I fear, the last time in two weeks last night. He has disappeared into the woods. I do not know what to make of this, and the fact that Marie is growing vacant as well. She shows no interest in looking for her only son. I saw the Tall Man in the woods yesterday. He had no face. His long arms beckoned me, both terrifying and comforting, but I turned and ran. Some say the reason his face is blank is that if you stare into it for too long, he takes yours. They call him the Face Stealer. I feel that the more I learn about it, the greater chance I have of finding Louise._

_Marie is of no use at all._

That was the last coherent entry. The next ones made no sense at all.

"What do you think of this?" he asked the skull.

It grinned back at him and said nothing.

He would never get used to the silence. He had been fine, even comfortable with it before John, but now…now it felt like loneliness.

_Found something in German. Care to translate? __Der Engel ist draußen._

_-SH_

He sent the text before realizing how late it was. The translation would be accompanied by a complaint about the hour, but that was of little consequence.

The reply came immediately.

_The angel is outside._

_-JW_

Sherlock frowned.

_What are you doing up?_

_-SH_

_Couldn't sleep._

_-JW_

His suspicions deepened. Heart rate quickening in spite of himself, he consulted the page on Slender Sickness.

The first symptom was insomnia, followed by constant cold.

_Is it still cold in your flat?_

_-SH_

_Yeah._

_-JW_

No. No, he was simply getting swept up in this ridiculous story. Couldn't be. Impossible.

He switched off his phone. Perhaps this was a sign-enough research for the night.

"Fat lot of good you've been," he muttered in the direction of the skull, closing the laptop with a snap.

But, as with most interesting cases, it didn't end with that. Theories chased themselves around in his mind, poking holes in each other, suspicions and uncertainties forming and getting lost in the logic, leaving as soon as they had come. He needed more. More data, perhaps a proper questioning of the Fischer girl, a thorough search of the house…

His sleep was dreamless, but that didn't mean it wasn't troubled.


	7. Worried

I had had a long day at work, and all I really wanted was a quiet night in. Maybe a movie with Sarah, on the sofa. Dinner-I think we had something left over in the fridge. I was quite looking forward to it, which of course meant it wasn't going to happen.

I unlocked the door to find Sherlock seated uncomfortably at the breakfast table, incredibly out of place. He was too angular for the chair, and his presence was too big for the room. He seemed as though he was trying to conceal his agitation; very badly, I thought. His lips were set in a thin, hard, line, and his eyes were glittering darkly. He was playing restlessly with his phone, and when I entered the room he dropped it like it had caught fire and simultaneously leapt to his feet.

"John," he said, and for a brief moment I could sense apprehension in his voice.

I raised my eyebrows. "Hi."

He seemed to calm down a little at the sound of my voice, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "I…uh, let myself in. The keys were under the mat."

"Okay," I said slowly, reaching for the handle of the closet to hang up my jacket.

He flinched slightly when I raised my hand, almost as if I was about to hit him. I had never seen him this jumpy, but I didn't want to exacerbate his mood by chewing him out for not warning me before he showed up.

"Is this going to be a regular thing with you?" I asked lightly. He gave no response, watching me intently.

"I…Sherlock, is something wrong?"

"No," he said, measured. "No, nothing's wrong with…me." He paused. "You'll need that jacket, we're going out."

I sighed. I knew this had been coming. "Listen, Sherlock…"

"Wait, there's been some developments, you said you wanted me to tell you-"

"I've had a long day, I just want to rest."

"Well, that's too bad," he said coldly. "The Wilkins girl is worse and they're calling in Martha for questioning. Gregson's in charge of the case, and he's _graciously _invited me, and by extension, you. Won't take us an hour."

I smiled in spite of myself. "You're certainly in a mood."

And, just like that, the walls went back up. "What makes you say that?"

"I think something's bothering you, and I think you're not going to tell me what it is. And I think it's me."

"Is it still cold in here?" Sherlock asked.

"Why are you asking?"

"Humor me."

"Yes. But…"

"But," prompted Sherlock tensely.

"But I'm cold more often now, is that really cause for alarm?"

"Like the cold's following you," he said softly.

"No," I said slowly, a little concerned about his mental state now. "No, not like it's following me. Like I'm a little colder than usual, okay? Sherlock? Do you want to sit down?"

He had pushed his coat back to put his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

"Allow me to explain something," he said quietly, gazing out the window pensively. It offered an unobstructed view of the busy London street below. "I think it will help you understand."

"Okay," I said, moving near the window so I was at his side.

He was silent for a long time, as if wondering how to put it.

"Life is far stranger than anything the ordinary person can imagine."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because I watch," he said, gesturing outside. "Because I watch this city, I listen to it, I know it better than most people who were born here and will die here, too. If you-if you and I could step outside this window and fly above London, lift up the roofs of every little flat and office building and see what was going on inside, we would find…so…much. So many stories, most of them dull, boring, yes, but some of them…" His eyes lit up. "Amazing. Fascinating. Worth dying for. You wonder why I don't take interest in works of fiction. Why would I, when I've got all the stories I could ever want in my backyard?"

I was silent. I couldn't think of anything to say.

He rubbed at his eyes tiredly. "Last night I found a website. About the Slender Man."

"You're not serious. Sherlock, it's an _urban myth_. A story! You just said-"

"I know what I said. And how many times have I told you that when you've ruled out the impossible, whatever's left, no matter how mad it sounds has to be the truth?"

"Sounds like you should start taking your own advice."

"This isn't necessarily impossible. You're a scientist, use your imagination-"

"I don't have to! That's the point, scientists don't believe in _magic_."

He scoffed. "You can do better than that, John. Magic is just another way of saying 'I don't know.'"

"Well, you're right there, I don't."

He leaned forward, so close that I could count the colors in his eyes. "So let's go find out."

I smiled. _There_ he was. "Right behind you."

"Knew you'd get there eventually," he said with a wink.

Detective Inspector Tobias Gregson (or "Toby", as people liked to call him behind his back, not that he didn't notice) had served with the Metropolitan Police for fifteen years. He was not planning on going anywhere anytime soon, despite the multiple promotions he had received during his tenure. Gregson liked where he was. He intended to stay there.

In all this time, he had never met anyone he disliked as much as Gregory Lestrade.

He didn't know what it was about the man. It was hate at first sight, and it was mutual. Over time it had become a grudging respect, but that didn't mean they liked working together. On the contrary, they detested it, and were, as a consequence, constantly trying to outdo each other. Gregson would be making heady progress on a case when someone by the water-cooler, almost nonchalantly, would make a throw-away comment about DI Lestrade taking _quite _the interest in his case…in fact, he seemed to have some compelling theories of his own…

They were, of course, taking the piss. That was all. Winding him up. On occasion these stories would prove to be more than mere fabrication, and Lestrade would drop by his office to say something snide about the investigation, and Gregson would in turn say something snide about the Mosely murders, and that would be that. They kept the shouting to a minimum, and if raised voices became necessary they closed the door. It was neat, cold, and civilized.

Being as he was a near permanent fixture at the Yard, it was a little known fact that he had helped MI6 during the Cold War in the 60's. Most people respected his seniority but thought little of his prowess as a criminal investigator, perhaps especially because Sherlock Holmes thought highly of him. He hoped he could pull this case off. He didn't like it, with all its supernatural undertones and weird disappearances. It could make his career, but still…

In short, he had more important and frankly more interesting things to do than waste time making sure Lestrade was still there at the end of the month.

"But you don't understand," said Sato, an edge of desperation creeping into her voice.

"I thought we were discussing Martha's state of mind-"

"Lestrade is good at what he does, alright? I know you don't like each other, but we need him."

"What is he on probation for anyway?" asked Gregson offhandedly.

"You don't want to know."

"Tell me."

"Sherlock."

He raised his eyebrows, stopping halfway in the act of pulling open the door to the interrogation room. "Really?"

"He's mucked things up one time too many, apparently."

Gregson closed the door. "How? He's a bastard, sure, but he's a _useful_ bastard. Even I can see that."

"Apparently it's not good for PR. It hurts our image, having an amateur solve half of our most difficult cases without sparing more than a few brain cells." She spoke bitterly.

"Do you think I made a mistake, then? Calling him in?"

She shrugged. "We're desperate. Anything he can get out of her could be useful."

Sato glanced down the hall. "Too late now, anyway…"

They had already arrived, being led by an irate Sally Donovan. Gregson held open the door for her as they filed into the room in silence. 


	8. The Witness Stand

Martha was seated at one end of a small, grimy metal table. The walls were soundproof and windowless, and as colorless as the gray, stone floor. The lights were clinically bright.

She looked frightened. Sherlock wasn't surprised-they were treating this as a criminal investigation, a harrowing experience for any young child to go through, and doubly so for one concerning the unusual kidnapping of a close friend. Usually this would stir no emotion even marginally resembling sympathy in him, and any such thing would be immediately suppressed, but now his stomach squirmed uncomfortably at the thought of a similar fate befalling John. _Kidnapped_…it was a fallacious term, doing no justice to the terror of the ones left behind…

He pushed the thought out of the way for the time being. Irrelevant.

Inspector Gregson had told him that she had already described the night of the kidnapping, but he wanted to hear her account for himself. He had questioned adolescents before. This would be easy. They never were very good at lying…

He smiled, sticking out his hand genially. "Sherlock Holmes."

She took it in a very grown-up fashion, looking relieved that he, at least, seemed genuine. Good. _Let's keep it that way._

"I'm Martha Fischer."

He scraped a chair across the floor. John hung towards the back, sensing that this was not his place. He was terribly receptive that way. Sherlock steepled his fingers.

"So, Martha. Do you have any pets?"

She seemed thrown at the unusual question. "Uh…er, yeah. One. A dog."

"What kind of dog?"

"Is this important?" asked Sergeant Donovan irritably. He ignored her.

"A German shepherd," said Martha, shooting an uneasy glance at Donovan before continuing.

"What's it like?"

"She," she corrected. "Her name's Laika. She's really nice. She doesn't bite or anything."

"I didn't see her when I was at your house."

"She was in the ce-sorry, she was in the garage, because she was barking a lot. Laika doesn't like strangers. She usually sleeps in my room."

_Interesting._

"Are you a deep sleeper, Martha?"

"No."

"Did you hear Laika at any time during the night your friend was taken?"

"No, not at all."

"Were you woken at all?"

"No, I just got up in the morning and she was gone…and there were the pictures." Her voice was getting increasingly quieter.

He took a sheet of paper out of his pocket. "Do you recognize this?"

It was a grainy printout of another "photograph" he had found while perusing the web.

"It's...um…"

"Go ahead," prompted Inspector Gregson, not unkindly.

Sherlock turned sharply. "Excuse me, Inspector, I thought you called _me _in to question her?"

Gregson made no reply.

"Well?" prompted Sherlock.

"It's the Slender Man," she said, almost inaudibly, head downcast. She was counting the pockmarks on the thin metal, he noted. Distracting herself. It was a tactic he had used himself when under duress, even if she was doing it very, very obviously. The art of subtlety takes time.

"What _is_ the Slender Man, Martha?" he breathed, leaning forward.

"It's a story. An urban legend."

"And yet…you're afraid."

"I didn't-I'm not _afraid_," she said indignantly.

He quirked an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching with disbelief. Her jaw clenched in defiance, but her eyes belied her words.

"One more thing," he said, business-like.. "Your nanny. What's she like?"

"Nice," she said. "I like her."

He nodded. "That's all. Thank you. You've been a great help."

Walking out of the Scotland Yard building in Hendon, John had that perennially confused expression on his face-somehow simultaneously endearing and frustrating. Rather like the man himself.

"What was the point of all that?"

"Oh, I think I got some useful information…especially the curious incident of the dog in the nighttime."

"The dog didn't do anything in the nighttime."

"That was the curious incident. I won't be needing you for at least a few days, work to do."

He chanced a glance at the doctor to gauge his reaction.

_Relieved. The game's just picking up and he's _relieved…

John put a finger to his temple, brow furrowed.

"What's wrong?" asked Sherlock.

John stopped walking, not even looking up.

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. He snapped his fingers.

"John. _John_."

He met Sherlock's eyes slowly, looking like he was coming out of a trance.

"I…did you say something?"

"Yeah," he replied, fearful that at any moment the doctor might collapse, the way he was swaying ever so slightly. "Is everything alright?"

John steadied himself. "Yes, sure, fine. I just…have a headache. That's all."

_Like hell it is._

"Okay," he said carefully.

John was hiding something.

Sherlock had been blind, too immersed in his own mind to really step back and _think. _This was the kind of thing Mycroft berated him about constantly. It stung to realize he had a point. But then, Mycroft also maintained that all the world's a chessboard, and all the men and women merely pieces.

This, then, required utmost secrecy.

He thought, suddenly, of a pile of stolen police badges under a floorboard in his room, and in them, he saw the hazy outlines of a plan.

His lip curled.

_Checkmate in five. White to move. _

This would be interesting.

Donovan stretched. It was her day off. She had barely slept. The nights seemed longer nowadays, and colder, too. It must have been the new flat. Funny place, this. The heating still didn't work, even though she had moved in two months ago, and the wallpaper was a shade of yellow that reminded her of cat vomit. The whole flat had a dim, depressing quality about it, made worse by the slow drizzle painting tear tracks on the windowpanes.

Blearily, she made her way to the bathroom, flicking on the light.

She stifled a scream.

There was blood dripping down the front of her shirt. Her nose was gushing like a spigot. For a moment she just stood there, dripping all over the clean white tiles, but then she came to her senses and grabbed the tissue box, pulling out a handful with shaking hands.

Still reeling from the shock, Donovan rushed back to the bedroom to find that her pillow was soaked as well. The nosebleed showed no sign of stopping.

She needed a doctor.


	9. Christmas Trees

I was happy to get out of the flat; Sarah and I had just fought, for the second time that week. I'd never been married before. I wasn't sure this is what it was supposed to feel like.

Mrs. Hudson, for one, received me with a hug and a peck on the cheek. "He's upstairs," she said, lowering her voice. "In one of his moods."

It looked the same. That was incredibly reassuring-I had been apprehensive in turning the doorknob to 221B Baker Street for the first time in many months, in the fear that somehow it would have changed to accommodate my absence. But no. The wallpaper was horrendous, the comfortable chair at the foot of the stairs had not moved an inch, and the air still smelled of coffee, formaldehyde, and…

"Are you baking something, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Oh, yes. Cookies. Sherlock didn't want any, I've already asked. Should I bring some up?"

"If you don't mind."

_He still doesn't use the coat rack_, I noted as I started up the stairs. Sherlock preferred to hang his coat on the banister. For some reason this observation was accompanied by a sudden rush of affection. I don't know. My feelings were a bit muddled from my recent argument with Sarah, and I hadn't seen him in a few days. I was starting to worry about him. He was texting me at odd hours of the night, asking disconnected questions about my health. Had he guessed?

Pushing aside my suspicions, I opened the door. For a minute I didn't see him, but then his baritone issued from the sofa-

"You took your time."

"You called?"

"Yeah. My magnifier is on the table."

"Your _magnifying glass_?" He hated it when people called it that.

"You are being deliberately difficult," he snapped, enunciating the alliteration.

"Yes. Because you didn't call me here just to fetch your magnifying glass. _You're _being difficult."

Silence. He's a child, sometimes.

"Well?" I prompted.

"You've fought with Sarah."

That threw me. "I-what?"

"Don't try to deny it."

"How could you tell?"

"Just your expression." He glanced up, his expression uncharacteristically concerned. "Everything alright?"

I tossed him his magnifier. "Don't worry about it. What's that?"

He was holding a piece of notebook paper. After examining it and giving a nod of satisfaction, he held it out to me.

"Fan mail."

_If you value your life, _it said, _stay away from the house. _

I sat down on the table, incredulous. He sat up, facing me, so our knees were touching.

"No," he said, holding up a finger as I opened my mouth to speak. "Don't. Two things. One, we know it's nothing supernatural now."

"This is ink, right?" I demanded, waving it around. "Dark brown ink?"

"No, it's blood. A touch melodramatic for something presumably bent on driving us insane. Two. We have to go to the house."

I paused. "Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"I don't want to…to scare you or anything-"

"I'm not easily frightened."

"I've been having these nightmares."

"The…" He didn't want to say it. He thought, understandably, that it was the other thing again, and I could see the image forming in his mind-me, gasping for breath in the middle of the night like I was drowning in air, just back from the blood and death of a battlefield in the middle of the desert where the bodies kept coming and nothing made sense.

We had never discussed this. He knew, of course-once or twice he caught me as I was coming downstairs for a glass of water. He didn't say anything, didn't intrude, and for that I was strangely glad.

In his own way, I suppose he had been trying to help.

"No," I said quietly. "They're different."

"But…bad."

"Yeah."

"What does that have to do with anything?" he said shortly.

I bit my lip. "It's…yeah, it's nothing."

"I agree. Let's go." He used me to brace himself as he sprang up off the couch, suddenly full of energy.

"Wait. Mrs. Hudson made cookies, I told her to bring some up…"

"Trust me, you really don't want to stick around."

"She's a good cook!"

"Yes, but she wanted to borrow some sugar, and…"

"She took the salt."

"Ehh…no, not exactly."

"Sherlock…" I began, exasperated, feeling absurdly like his mother. He was tying his shoes as a pretense for not meeting my eyes.

"Well, it was _a_ salt," he muttered at the floorboards.

I sighed. "Are you going to tell her?"

"Are you?"

"_Yes_."

"It'll have to wait. We're going."

He grabbed arm and all but shoved me out the door before I could protest.

"You're asking the wrong question," he said, as soon as I opened my mouth.

"You don't even know what I was going to ask!"

"You're wondering what's at the house our correspondent is so keen to keep us away from."

"Huh."

He smiled. "Good, right?"

"Lucky guess."

"I never guess."

"Liar. Why is it the wrong question?"

"Well, it's a good one," he acquiesced, pulling out the note. "But it's not as interesting as the one I'm thinking of-where did they get this much blood?"

"They might have pricked their finger…"

"Nope. Lines are too thick, and that's a hell of a lot of trouble to go to just to scare us. And then there's blood tests."

"You think they'd be on record somewhere?"

"Medical ones, certainly."

"You can't get those, though. That's illegal."

"Never stopped me before."

"So if it's not their own…"

"Who's is it?" he finished.

The Fischer house was in a panic.

Mrs. Fischer met us at the door, her arms full of clothing. "Oh, thank God, it's you," she said breathlessly, ushering us in. "Those idiot policemen haven't been any help at all. So sorry about the mess-"

There were boxes strewn everywhere.

"Has something happened?" I asked.

She turned to me, her eyes full of a manic desperation. She lowered her voice to a hysterical whisper.

"The house is haunted! We're not staying here any longer, I won't have it, not with that, that _thing _in here! I don't care, we're staying with my sister until someone does something about it. We've brought the Devil upon us, mark my words, and it's only a matter of time before someone _dies_! The school will fire me! I'm the best headmistress they've had! Higher salaries and a better music department, but that won't matter now-" She choked, unable to contemplate the loss of her position any longer.

"Maybe you should sit down," I said, guiding her to an overstuffed, flowery chair. She was fanning herself with one plump hand.

"Exactly what prompted this decision?" asked Sherlock. "Tell me from the beginning."

"It was late last night," she began. "Everyone was asleep. I heard a noise, so opened the door and the dog was prowling around."

"Where?"

"On the landing, in front of my daughter's room. Scratching at the door, that's what woke me."

"Is Laika usually up that late?" I asked.

"No, never. Something had woken it as well. When it saw me, it turned and ran down the stairs."

"And you followed," said Sherlock.

"I did. I've always maintained that dogs have a certain way of sensing the supernatural. They see things that we can't."

"Quite," said Sherlock indulgently. "But go on. This is very interesting."

"Well, it was sitting at the back door, scratching again. I opened and turned the light on and…"

"What happened?"

She lowered her voice. "The trees. There were bags full of blood strung up on the trees."

We were led out back. Just as she had said, there were blood bags strung up on all the trees, like some sort of grisly Christmas ornament.

Sherlock examined one, then turned to Mrs. Fischer triumphantly. "You said you were a headmistress."

"Of St. Mary's school for Girls, yes," she replied, drawing herself up to her full height.

"There was a blood drive today. Red Cross. There was a flyer on the fridge," he explained, in answer to my nonverbal question. "That narrows the field down considerably. Now, Joanna," he said, smiling amiably at Mrs. Fischer. "If you don't mind, could we have a look in your basement?"


	10. Second Chances

"Why are we doing this?"

"Following a lead," Sherlock answered, switching on the light.

"It's a bit damp," said Mrs. Fischer helpfully.

"Yeah, thanks," Sherlock replied, shutting the door in her face.

"Shouldn't we be following up with the school?" I asked.

"Later." He had reached the center of the room. It was a wine cellar, all stone, with one book-case that fell just short of the gap from the ceiling to the floor. Sherlock was examining it punctiliously, running his fingers down the sides, searching for telltale cracks. He let out a soft cry of triumph.

"Help," he ordered. I hurried forward, and our combined weight was enough to slide it away from a worn wooden door.

"It's a not a secret passage," he said contemptuously, cutting me off.

"I wasn't going to say that."

"You were thinking it. It's just been forgotten. It's old wood, they would have replaced the door. But look at this," he added, indicating the doorknob.

"Also worn?"

"Yeah. Smooth. Someone uses this room regularly." Saying so, he flung open the door to reveal darkness. The air smelled richly poisonous, almost sweet, and I felt my temples throb as if in warning. It was dark, a dense, choking dark, and it was with no small amount of instinctual apprehension that I pulled Sherlock back from the threshold.

"It's dark," I said lamely, by way of explanation. "It looks like there's a staircase, and it's steep. You'll break your neck."

"I'll be careful."

We looked back at the entrance, frozen, and I thought I saw my own sense of foreboding mirrored in his eyes before it was extinguished by indefatigable self-control.

"Dark," he repeated. "Got your phone?"

I handed it to him.

"There's an app for that," he said with a half-smile, and suddenly our way was illuminated by the bright white light of the flash on the camera. "Comng?"

"After you."

When I reached the bottom of the stairs I realized that we no longer needed the phone; a flickering LED lantern hung from the ceiling.

"Someone's been here already," I murmured.

Sherlock cautiously stretched out a hand and touched a wall. "Recently, look."

His fingers came away wet. I checked the other walls.

"They're all wet," I said incredulously. Sherlock strode purposefully to the corner of the room and picked up a garden hose from the cold stone floor.

"Could be cleaning up…I don't know, mud?" I proposed.

"On the walls? Try again."

"Um…"

"There's a table back here, and-oh! Hello, what's this?"

I helped him pull the table into the light. There was nothing but a glass of water on it. He picked it up and sniffed it, then slowly started to tip it towards his mouth.

"No," I said firmly, taking it from him and placing it on the table. "At least not until we know what's in it."

He tipped some of it out onto the floor, and then frowned, evidently struck by paradox. "Where did it go?" he wondered aloud.

"Sorry?"

"The water, it would have splashed but the walls are still wet so it hasn't had time to dry, and in any case the light's too weak for it to have evaporated. Where did it drain to?"

"I don't see anything."

A low growl rose from the corner of the room that made us both jump. A German Shepherd stepped out into the light, bristling with anger at the intrusion of her sleeping quarters. Her lips were drawn back in a snarl, exposing healthy white teeth. _Sharp _white teeth.

I crouched to the floor, making myself smaller, and held out a hand, palm down. After a tense moment, the dog took a few steps forward and sniffed it curiously. I stroked her head, marveling at the thickness of her fur. She had been well cared for.

Sherlock smiled triumphantly.

"What?" I asked.

He waved a hand, as if to say it was inconsequential. "Nothing. I'll explain later."

Going back up the stairs, I braced myself against the wall, carefully, because it was still….

Dry.

"Sherlock," I said sharply.

He sprinted back and ran his hand against all of the walls. Dry. Dry. Dry.

I checked where he had spilt the water. Gone.

"I think we're being played with," he said loudly, directing the statement not at me but the whole room. "Well? If you're really a monster then come on out! They said you liked the dark!"

He hooked the chair with his foot and slid it under the lantern with an air of reckless bravado. Leaping up, he removed the lantern from its hook and held it out to the shadowy corners of the room, swinging it like he was warding off a demon.

"So," he said softly. "Time to stop hiding."

He switched off the light and we were plunged into total darkness.

I stood perfectly still, trying not to breathe too hard. I was sure he'd gone mad but not at all certain what to do about it.

And then something inside my head exploded. I couldn't even cry out, it hurt too much, like someone was driving a nail through my skull. I sank to the floor, shaking both with the effort of not screaming and the sudden, bone chilling cold. Multicolored bubbles burst in front of my eyes and I for a few moments I may have blacked out.

The lights were back on. Sherlock was at my side, dragging me upwards.

I noticed two things.

One, the walls were slick with water.

And two, the Slenderman itself was standing in the corner of the room, arms outstretched, its blank white face somehow more terrifying that any other apparition could ever hope to be.

I couldn't look long, though, since Sherlock had forcibly shoved me up the stairs but by that time there was no need, I was already running as fast as I could, anything to get away from that room, that sickly sweet smell, and above all that Lovecraftian horror lurking in there, hungry, waiting.

I slammed the door shut, only just now noticing that the dog had raced up the stairs with us. It skittered away, barking like mad.

"You saw it too?" said Sherlock, watching her tail disappear through the basement door.

"Yes."

"Then it's happening again."

"What is?"

"Worse than the last time. I'm hearing voices." He turned to me. "What does that mean?"

"I don't know," I said, massaging my head. The pain had gone as quickly as it had come, but my ears were still ringing.

"Headaches again?"

"And cold," I said. "It happened the first night too, in her bedroom. I thought I might have seen it then, too."

"Okay," he said, after a long, pensive pause. "Okay. So you saw it twice. And both times it was accompanied by the headache and the cold, right? This was my first time, but the voices started…oh, two days ago. I told Hopkins to keep me posted about anything unusual and he said that Donovan developed a violent nosebleed around the same time. Gregson's out sick, won't say why."

"But why them? Why us, come to think of it? And have they been seeing it too? What was with that water?"

"Oh, it wasn't water. That much is…" He trailed off, staring into space. "Obvious," he finished slowly. He smiled, then laughed. He looked a bit…off.

"Sherlock?"

"The wheels are in motion, John. Everything's falling into place. They're set to move, so…yes. Yes. Perfect." His smile broadened.

"Devil or no, we're going to catch ourselves a monster."

Gregson looked down at the file. It was the third time he'd gone through it in four hours, and he was getting nowhere.

Nothing about this case made sense, and the further he dug the less sense it made. That damned detective hadn't phoned in days. The Fischer case was cold, he concluded wearily. If Sherlock Holmes couldn't do it, nobody could.

Maybe he was pushing himself too hard. It was, after all, his first day back from a bout of flu. At least, that's what he had been telling everyone.

Two days previously he had awoken in the middle of the night to find a strange figure at the side of his bed. He first thought it might have been Ann, but switching on the light revealed not his wife but a glimpse of a shadowy thing with no eyes and too many arms. He screamed, woke Ann and probably the neighborhood as well, and two hours later he was shivering with fever.

He might have dismissed this as a delirious product of his own imagination, having spent far too much time on the Fischer case lately, but it happened again the next night. Not just the Slenderman-he would almost have preferred that-but Joey, his grandson, dead on the floor and wrapped, oddly enough, in plastic. The _thing _was cradling the child, rocking it to and fro in its many, writhing arms. The vision had flickered a few times before disappearing. His fever broke and that was the end of it. Nothing more.

He was interrupted from his examination of the photos by a knock at the door.

"What do you _want_," he growled irritably, annoyed at having his concentration broken. DI Dimmock slid in. He'd never liked Dimmock. Green as they came, with the possible exception of Stan. While Stan was in a class of his own when it came to naïveté, at least there was something honest about it. Dimmock had a kind of slimy ambition that made his skin crawl.

"Afternoon, Toby," said Dimmock casually.

"I'm very busy."

"It'll only take a minute." He closed the door. Gregson looked up expectantly.

"I'm getting a promotion," said Dimmock, with the barely controlled boisterousness of someone who felt it was about bloody time.

"Congratulations."

"You sound surprised."

"It's a bit sudden."

"I was something like eighty five percent above average this month. They came to their senses. Can't argue with numbers, eh?"

"No, you can't," he sighed, closing the file.

"Lestrade's packing."

"Good fucking riddance."

Dimmock chuckled. "Thought you'd say that." His humor faded. "It doesn't seem right, though, does it?"

Gregson shrugged. "He backed the wrong horse. Mind, this is the last time Sherlock Holmes is ever working with me."

"Lestrade's been here longer than everyone but you. Doesn't that count for something?"

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Maybe, but I'm not going to argue with them. Why are you coming to me with this? Go to Sally. Or Anderson."

"Or, to be honest, anyone else," added Dimmock. "No one wants to see him go."

"Not my problem."

Dimmock was silent for a moment. "Okay. That's all. See you."

"Bye."

Alone in his office, Gregson came to the sudden realization that he was going to miss him. He was going to miss the repartee, the competition, even the occasional sabotage of his morning coffee. And something Dimmock had said brought back a memory from five years ago.

_You can't argue with numbers._

Five years ago they had both been caught in a gang shootout in West End. Gregson was pinned to a dead end, with both his walkie-talkie and his baton lying fifty feet away. It was some spiky haired kid (what were they calling them now? Chav, it might have been) at the other end of the gun. He had been watching this one. He had either fired five bullets or six from his revolver, and neither of them were quite sure which. Gregson's life depended on the answer.

"Well," breathed the kid, and Gregson wondered if he had ever killed before. It was one of those moments that stretched out into forever and he realized that life did not in fact flash before your eyes, because you are too busy living as fast as you can when you've no time left.

Gregson, present, at his desk, slowed down the tape. It was automatic, unconscious-it seemed he could only recollect the event in slow motion.

The kid's finger pushes down on the trigger.

A shadow falls across his face.

_I tried, Ann._

His ears are ringing.

There is a hole in the wall next to one of them.

And Gregory Lestrade is pinning the kid to the ground by his neck, and he looks up.

They hold eye contact for nearly ten seconds before he is gone again, into the firefight. Gregson, present, at his desk, opened his laptop and typed out a subject line on an email.

**DI Lestrade**

He hovered indecisively over the keyboard before beginning.

_I've always believed in second chances._


End file.
